


a memory of the smell of smoke

by Neffectual



Series: From An In-Ring Perspective [15]
Category: Professional Wrestling, World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Angst, Ghosts, M/M, Surreal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-13
Updated: 2016-10-13
Packaged: 2018-08-22 03:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8271311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neffectual/pseuds/Neffectual
Summary: A prompt - Roman: "I don't believe in ghosts." And he doesn't, not even when October comes around.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SurviveEternity](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SurviveEternity/gifts).



> “We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.” - Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Roman regrets ever saying it, that dark October night, with the moon pale like exposed bone above them, as Dean stood on his doorstep with a butterfly net and a bag of de-icing salt, grinning like he was going to solve the world’s problems by bottling them up into a jar and storing them on a shelf, carefully labelled. His words didn’t make Dean’s smile fade; quite the opposite, he grinned impossibly wider, a face with almost too many teeth in it for Roman’s liking, and dropped the net and salt, hooking his fingers into his belt loops.

“Oh, brother, the things you still need to learn about this business.”

He hadn’t pushed, just ambled into Roman’s house and shut the door behind him, heading towards the kitchen and opening the refrigerator like he lived there all the time, instead of just showing up when they were passing through the right state. He drank the milk out of the carton, leaving it on the counter, and swirled out of the back door like a leaf-laden breeze. When Roman got to the door to close it, Dean was dancing with the cool wind and the moonlight, and he looked so ethereal that Roman almost questioned his reality. But soon Dean was back in his arms, that cool, clammy sweat that came from exertion in cold weather, kissing him insistently and slipping cold hands up under his shirt, caressing his ribcage like he was learning to play the xylophone.

“You still think you know all there is to know about this world?”

Dean asked him as it got closer to the solstice, the weight of the winter ahead falling heavily on both of them, joints playing up and needing more warming up before matches, the way groans spilled out of them as cold puffs of air when Roman forgot to heat his house and their lovemaking was beneath piles of blankets, neither wanting to step out of their cosy haven to turn up the heat. They were making it work, the two of them together, broken and soldered back together like there had never been a third between them, as if they’d never been more than this curl of two bodies under layers of fabric, panting out each other’s names as if another didn’t turn to so much ash beneath their tongues.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”

When Roman said it, he was thinking about a third figure, all in black, as he blew out the jack-o’-lantern on the porch. No trick-or-treaters had come, and Dean scoffed half the candy to himself, proclaiming the rest to be loser candy, and refusing to touch it. He wrapped his arms around Roman’s waist, and he’d never felt less solid in that moment, never felt more alone on that porch, in the half-lit darkness, stars above him as the cold sank into his bones and the emptiness of the sky sucked at his mind. He wasn’t a child anymore, to be frightened by the darkness, or what lay in the darkness, what lurked around corners. He remembered how he’d always leapt into bed to stop the monster underneath it from grabbing him by the ankles, how he’d slept with a nightlight until he was twelve, how he hated the sound of the wind howling outside his window.

“I can understand why.”

Dean didn’t let go of him all the way back to the bedroom, not until he had Roman half-naked and spread out on the bed, when he went and threw open the bay windows, letting the autumn air in to caress Roman’s thighs and make him shudder. The air smelled of burnt-out candles, of decaying leaves, wound through with the freshness of winter cold on its way, even in Florida, and Roman could almost believe, for a second, that their third was in the room, that the wind was another set of hands on him, that another set of lips were kissing him. Dean joined him on the bed, the two of them naked and warm, but Roman couldn’t shake the idea of a colder presence against his skin, bracketing him on the other side, couldn’t help but cry out at warm and cold hands on his body, how good it felt to have all three of them there again, how right it felt to no longer be alone.

“We had so many hopes for you.”

When Roman opened his eyes, he was alone in his bed, big bay windows still open, and he was shivering under a pile of blankets, couldn’t keep himself warm, but tried anyway, pulling them closer around him and looking around his room in the half-gloom of dawn, the scent of dew and darkness and the coming season on his breath, clinging to his skin. There was no sign that Dean had ever been there, no bags, no clutter, no sounds of his lover in the kitchen clattering about, just the sound of the leaves being blown along the path outside, like the clattering of the bones of summer, and the smell of smoke, bringing tears to his eyes. He was alone, just like every morning, and he’d been a fool to think that this All Hallows would bring anything different. He left the bed, standing naked in front of his mirror and watched as the phantom kisses and bites faded away. Within an hour, there would be nothing to show that they had ever been there. He dressed, went downstairs, and carefully redrew the lines of salt on every doorstep and windowsill, to be unbroken for another year.

“I don’t believe in ghosts.”


End file.
